


I'll Take Care of You

by Chronicler



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, Bottom Zayn, Breathplay, Butt Plugs, Claiming, Closeted Characters, Complicated Relationships, Daddy Kink, Despair, Desperation, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Dom Liam, Drug Use, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Feminization, Fingerfucking, Football Player Liam, Genderqueer Character, Hope, Hotel Sex, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Love, M/M, Marking, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Ownership, Past Relationship(s), Pet Names, Polyamory, Porn, Power Dynamics, Promiscuity, Prostate Massage, Reunion Sex, Riding, Rimming, Secret Relationship, Shower Sex, Sub Zayn, Top Liam, Undecided Relationship(s), Watersports, pansexual characters, r&b singer zayn, ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-07 04:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1885815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chronicler/pseuds/Chronicler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn Malik is a successful, though troubled R&B singer. There is little that he hasn't seen or done, but the one memory that he just can't shake is his ex-lover, footballer Liam Payne. They spend a tumultuous, though admittedly pleasurable night trying to piece themselves back together and work out where they go from here, and if it will be together or apart...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A bittersweet reunion

**Author's Note:**

> For Kaya in the Ziam fic exchange.
> 
> Prompt 1: a fic based off of "take care" by Drake + Rihanna.
> 
> Rating: up to explicit.
> 
> Things you would like to receive (ships, genres, kinks, etc): consensual dom/sub, angst with a happy ending.
> 
> Things you don't want to receive (ships, genres, kinks, etc): any girlfriend bashing. Nothing with non/dub con. Nothing with incest. Nothing underage.
> 
> ***
> 
> I'm so sorry I'm late for the deadline! I found it very hard to write, & terrifying to post. I hope it's okay. I wrote how the song made me feel.
> 
> Thank you to Lynn, Kayla, Brittany, Lini, Pam, & Courtney for beta reading.
> 
> Songs used: Take Care, by Graham, Jamie Smith & Shebib. Good Ones Go, by Graham, Shebib & Tesfaye.
> 
> I linked to a Youtube video compiled by Russo Italiano, because I used quotes from 1D Day. Plus, Ziam hour was glorious.
> 
> Any feedback would be very gratefully received!
> 
> Chapter 2 isn't new, it just occurred to me that one can separate chapters on AO3, I've never done that before, and this story's clearer that way. However, I do still keep editing the whole story and adding bits.

[Take Care ~ Drake ft. Rihanna ~ Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-zzP29emgpg)

[Take Care ~ Drake ft. Rihanna ~ Lyrics](http://rap.genius.com/Drake-take-care-lyrics)

[Ziam on 1D Day.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pzWyap_hrMI)

**_Carrefour_ **

_O You,_

_Who came upon me once_  
_Stretched under apple-trees just after bathing,_  
_Why did you not strangle me before speaking_  
_Rather than fill me with the wild white honey of your words_  
_And then leave me to the mercy_  
_Of the forest bees._

_~ Amy Lowell_

~~~

“We really have to stop meeting like this…”

Zayn feels the words breathed against the back of his neck as much as he hears them. The voice is achingly familiar and he closes his eyes, wincing almost imperceptibly as it washes over him. Only someone paying close attention would even notice, which fortunately no one is. He doesn't need more gossip being whispered, and sometimes shouted about him.

He takes a sip of his Champagne – Dutch courage – and pulls himself together, letting a mask of icy indifference slip over his face before he turns around.

“I didn’t know you’d be here.” He keeps his voice steady as he says it, though it still sounds a little defensive, even to himself. He knows that he wears his heart on his sleeve, and he hopes that for once he can resist showing all of his cards, can keep them close to his chest.

“Does it matter?” Liam asks the question with such seeming ease, as if he really possesses the calmness that Zayn is faking.

 _Shit – why do you have to look so fucking good?_ He asks silently, instead saying, “No,” dismissively as he turns to walk away – but Liam grabs his arm just above the elbow, his hold as strong as Zayn remembers. Letting his anger rise a little, even if it is unjustified, he pulls himself free as he rounds on the man he has spent months trying so hard not to think about.

Though Liam just looks sad as he says, “It doesn’t have to be like this. Let’s go somewhere private and talk? _Please_.” An edge of pleading creeps into his voice – his brow furrowing and his deep brown eyes full of a yearning that Zayn doesn’t want to deal with.

His mouth suddenly dry, he licks his lips, at a loss for words as his anger recedes and he finds himself nodding, knowing it’s a mistake even as he does it – knowing he should at least try to put up a fight. But he lets the strong, firm hand against the small of his back guide him from the sleek, crowded opulence of the ballroom, and across the lobby to the hotel’s more functional reception desk. Standing to the side as Liam speaks to the concierge, he tries to look casual and inconspicuous, even though he feels as if he is being rented for the night along with the room.

Some of the other guests from the party look over at them, a few even laugh, before he turns away. He can imagine what they’re saying: that Zayn Malik is being picked up by yet another footballer, in yet another hotel, like the notorious slut that he is. And he can’t even tell himself that they’re wrong. Though Liam isn’t a handsome stranger, isn’t just going to be a good fuck that he can easily walk away from. He only wishes that were the case.

As Liam ushers him into the lift, he sees the two of them reflected in the stark indifference of the mirrors that surround them on each side. Inescapable. Like distorted images at a fair, except horrifically mundane, as if everything is okay, when really nothing is.

He looks collected and in control, of course – perfectly groomed and put together. Slender and finely sculpted, with too many tattoos and piercings – and yet not nearly enough. A too-stifling suit avoided in favour of an all-black ensemble with no collar or tie. He just can’t get used to formal clothes, though people take it as him being edgy. His dark hair is styled improbably high, and his eyeliner artfully smudged. He looks high maintenance and all attitude, exuding a knowing aura that says he’s seen and done everything – which he admittedly has. The quintessential stereotype of an R&B star – but sometimes he doesn’t feel like it at all. He feels like he is perpetually walking a tightrope, high above the ground, and hoping no one notices that he’s just faking everything even as he falls…

Liam looks suave in his own classic suit, though he is too muscle bound and the clean cut of the expensive fabric bulges around him. He aims for sophisticated but he never quite hits it. The sensitive bullied boy he used to be always lurking just under the surface, no matter how many nightclubs he gets drunk in, and how many models and pop stars he manages to seduce.

Liam has always wanted so badly to possess the indefinable quality of “coolness” which Zayn exudes without even trying. It is one of the tragedies of that perceived honour – only those who don’t covet it can possess it. But Liam tries and tries and never quite grasps it. Never will. Just a little too earnest, a little too desperate. And, in all honesty, a little too adorable.

But he’s well-built and ruggedly handsome; which Zayn realises sounds like a line from a bad romance novel, but he knows a lot of words and yet can’t think of a more apt description for the object of his misguided affections. He looks like the boy next door after he’s been away for a while, seen the world, and had some of the innocence knocked out of him. At first Zayn had wanted to dirty him up some more, but by the end he had wanted to protect him at least as much. It had seemed like such a joke, him trying to protect someone, when he does such a bad job at taking care of himself. And the irony was, without even meaning to, Liam had hurt him more than anyone else ever had.

As Zayn turns to face the door, he catches a glimpse of their duplicates, stretching into infinity. As though getting to briefly peek into alternate parallel universes. He wonders if things are less fucked up in any of them. Probably not.

Taller than himself, Liam looks older too, although he isn't. He is perhaps more responsible, deep down, even though he hides it well these days. But still, the flickering light that burns from him had briefly illuminated the shadows that shroud Zayn's life. They complement each other, balance each other out… Or perhaps they would in another world, but not in this one.

They look like a couple out for the evening. He gasps and looks down as the realisation hits him. He’s seen enough.

“You planned this.” His tone is flat, and he says it without raising his gaze from the floor. It’s a statement rather than a question, and Liam doesn’t bother to deny it. It was smart of him to not try to take Zayn home with him, not give him time to think. Zayn never does make good decisions in the heat of the moment – always too quick to react, whether it be with passion or violence, more often to himself than others.

He lets Liam guide him to their hotel room. He even holds the door open for Zayn, closing it behind them. Liam always did want to be a gentleman, but he never quite succeeds at that either.

The room is, of course, big and luxuriant. Elegantly modernist and delicately pale, with its large windows and ridiculously gigantic bed. He imagines it has seen worse disasters than the train wreck that has just careened into it. Though possibly not many.

He had thought that Liam was just another dumb footballer at first – a bruiser who got lucky and flashes his wealth around to get laid and receive at least the illusion of respect. All testosterone and bravado protectively camouflaging a fragile ego. And he is. But when Zayn thinks about him he smiles, even now, and his heart clenches. It has always been disconcerting, but he just can’t stop. Not since the moment they met. Though, as painful as it is to be apart, it is perhaps easier than being together. Not better, not even close, but easier.

They had met at some other excruciating celebrity event, in a hotel like this one. He meets most of his hook-ups that way. It’s safer than groupies, everyone involved equally eager to avoid scandals. His record label puts pressure on him to attend, and so he gets his own brand of revenge. Liam had been there with a teammate, and Zayn let them share him – had ended up down on all fours being used from both ends – which had become a matter of contention between them later on. Liam claimed that he didn’t mind the things that Zayn had done – that he had gotten around plenty himself – and that was perhaps true, but in the end he had minded everyone knowing.

It’s all no different to the grey, northern town he grew up in – as it crumbled around him – no matter how much he tries to leave it behind. He’d done the same things there, but hanging out in parks and playgrounds instead. With dumb boys who plied him with drugs and alcohol – they’d wanted to fuck him, and he’d just wanted to escape from his life. He’s older now, though perhaps not wiser. He got out; singing was his ticket to fame, money, his own home near London, and more freedom than he ever could have had back home. He even bought a house for his family, and in return they don’t ask about his private life. But how much difference has any of it really made? The drugs are better. The rooms fancier. But the boys are the same. The girls always were a little more discerning, but plenty throw themselves at him now, along with those who are harder to categorise. He rarely says no. Why deny himself?

But it was always different with Liam. He wormed his way under Zayn’s skin right from the start. And no matter how hard he tried, Zayn could never quite dig him out. They'd kept finding each other at parties and clubs – and had fallen into each other. There was something so open about Liam, a damaged vulnerability that had shocked him. He had thought that Liam would be just a transitory distraction, one of many, but then Liam had smiled at him. Really smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkling until they almost closed completely – looking so excited by life. And he had found himself smiling back, feeling reinvigorated, charmed, and in so much trouble.

He had been right – it was downhill from there. The sex had been amazing, better than with anyone else, and he had plenty to compare it to. Liam indulged Zayn’s innermost fantasies, gave him exactly what he needed. Though Liam lived in an uneasy state of denial. The repressed ones are always the kinkiest; their unsatisfied desires bulging out uncomfortably until they explode. Everything needs a release in the end. But what really got him hooked was Liam’s surprising gentleness afterwards. How he didn’t run when he saw Zayn’s self-inflicted scars, or on the days when Zayn couldn’t handle the world at all, and just wanted Liam to take him away from everything. How bashfully delighted Liam had looked when they discovered each other’s hidden love for comics and superheroes, and how Liam smiled indulgently at Zayn’s shock that he never went near actual books. How sometimes, afterwards, when neither of them could quite bring themselves to leave, they would lay in bed together watching movies, and the rest of the world, with all its expectations, would seem to just just fade away.

But the rest of the world didn’t really vanish, and the secrets they kept from it formed a wedge between them that edged them inexorably apart. Zayn would have stopped hiding, would have braved the consequences, if that had been an option. It would have been hard, but he thought his career could survive it, and he barely even bothered to hide anymore. Liam though, closed off whenever Zayn brought it up. He didn’t want to be the only out player in the Premier League, and Zayn didn’t want to drag him kicking and screaming out of the closet. Wanting to understand, Zayn had spent far too much time looking up footballers that have come out, and was shocked to find how few ever have. He'd wanted to know what Liam would face if people knew, what kind of future they could have. He realised that although stronger than himself, Liam might not be able to handle the scrutiny he would be under if they tried to have a relationship in the full glare of the media. They would have received support from some people, but Liam's nature is such that he would have been far more aware of the inevitable hostility and condemnation from others.

Added to that were the veiled whispers in the tabloids, which stopped just short of naming them, and the infantile jokes made by Liam’s teammates. Some of whom had fucked Zayn themselves, but somehow saw that as more acceptable than Liam’s besotted gaze towards him. Zayn didn’t give a fuck about football, but the players had their uses. And it was an open secret that Zayn was intimately familiar with more than his fair share of people in all parts of the entertainment industry and sport. They just happen to be the people he meets – and they are, admittedly, exceptionally attractive. Reputations are easy to acquire, but very hard to escape.

He was never entirely sure what he and Liam even were. Perpetually hovering somewhere between a relationship and a suspicious number of increasingly deliberate hook-ups.

Although he had, at first, appreciated that Liam didn't ask about his past – at times looking at him with sympathy but not prying – he knew that it was Liam’s way of keeping him at arm’s length. Not investing too much. Not taking too much. Not becoming obligated. He hates it when people see how damaged and lost he is, and expect him to perform a display of trauma porn. To flay himself open and lay himself bare. Like a sideshow freak, that they can watch with thinly disguised disgust, morbidly fascinated until it becomes more than they can bear. Then they go back to their own lives, comforted that whatever their shortcomings, it could be worse. But ultimately, he wished Liam had wanted… had needed to know – enough to force his secrets out of him, and then not turn away repulsed.

Not that there is any one incident that explains everything. His psyche is a jigsaw made up of many pieces, some of which are lost forever. The scars and tattoos littering his body show some of the cracks, and hide others. Admittedly, he does have a mental list of the people who’ve let him down the most. He ranks pretty high on it himself. As does Liam. But there are plenty of others: those who pretended to love him to get what they wanted, or who turned away when he let them see who he really is. Vultures in the music industry who exploited him when he was still soft and eager. And worse things, that he tries not to think about. Then there are the wounds he has inflicted upon himself, both literally and metaphorically; they always bother people the most. They want an innocent victim they can pity, and a monstrous perpetrator to hate; when one’s greatest enemy is oneself, it confuses them. So he has learnt to stay silent. Perhaps if he had been more open with Liam, he would have stayed. Or perhaps he would have gone even sooner.

By the time Liam was suspended for punching a player on an opposing team who had goaded him on the pitch about the rumours – calling Liam bent, and Zayn everyone’s sloppy seconds – he had known it was the beginning of the end for whatever the fuck it was they had.

So, after a lot of arguing, Liam had gone back to his girlfriend, and Zayn had gone back to the life he had before. He knows that he pushes people away to see if they’ll stay. And they never do. Though, to be fair, he never had before either. At first Liam kept turning up still, and Zayn had just wanted him to stop. Until he did. Then he'd just wanted Liam back. He'd tried to pretend he isn't stuck in limbo, that he was over Liam, that he wasn't just waiting; at least he doesn't need to do that anymore.

Their entire unsatisfying history flashes through his mind, as he takes in yet another hotel room. The memories are raw as he turns to Liam, the thinly scabbed over wounds ripped open. The words taste bitter on his tongue as he throws them down, “I read you broke up with her? Again.” He knows he’s being confrontational, but he’s sick of games. Though he already suspects that tonight is not destined for the baring of souls.

Liam rubs the back of his hand over his soft, neat stubble that is edging its way towards becoming a beard, then runs his thumb over his ample lower lip. After a long pause, where he seems to be searching for what to say, he just nods.

Zayn feels another stab of anger, although he supposes that words are always inadequate in the end. He knows that Liam loved her, perhaps still does. But he also knows that she was the easy option. He always knew his hatred for her was unfair, but he does think that she enjoyed the things that came with being Liam Payne’s girlfriend more than she loved the man himself. Though, he grudgingly concedes, he barely knew her; it’s not like they were ever formally introduced. And now she’s gone. Apparently. But how long until she’s replaced? It wouldn’t be hard for Liam to find another seductive dancer to adorn his arm. Someone socially acceptable and respectable. Someone who isn't him.

 _"You motherfucker,”_ he shakes his head as he says it, frustration welling up inside him; his skin itches with it, he wants to yell, lash out… He wants to plead and curl up in Liam’s arms to be petted. “You can’t keep doing this! It’s not fair. Every time it gets harder to walk away.”

The hurt look in Liam’s eyes douses his resentment. He can’t wish pain on Liam, not for anything in the world. He raises a hand to reach out to him, curling it into a fist, and dropping it by his side as he realises what a fool he’s being. Yet again.

Their time together had been a rollercoaster ride; he had never been sure what would happen next. And he is so afraid, of so many things. Liam always seemed so brave to him. Fearless. Perhaps the only thing that scared Liam was himself. Always reluctant to reach out in case his hold was too tight. Which it was. And yet he’d still let Zayn down in the end. Had let go.

“It’s you that I want.” There is determination behind Liam’s words as he steps closer, his hands sliding around Zayn’s slim hips.

They've done this over and over, and he's heard it all before. He shakes his head, weary but still wound tight as he says, “I can’t do this again, I can’t let –”

Liam interrupts him, stopping him before he can work himself up too far, he always was good at soothing Zayn's moods, “I was a fucking asshole, but I can fix it. I can fix you.”

He lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “That’s a fucking cliché! And you can’t even fix yourself.”

“Then we can be broken together.”

 _“Liam,"_ he drags out the other man’s name as always – still loving the way it feels in his mouth, despite himself – as he tries to pull away. Accepting that nothing he says will make any difference.

Liam just pulls him closer and holds on tighter. “C’mon babe, we both know you’re gonna give it up, no point dragging this out. Just give me a chance to prove you wrong. Then you can be my pretty little WAG sitting in the stands cheering me on.” Liam’s perpetual bemusement shines through his words as he tries to get Zayn to look at him, tries to reel him back in.

Zayn lets himself pretend – just for a moment – though he knows it will never happen. They’re the star attractions in the big top and that isn’t what people are paying to see. He can't let himself believe. He barely survived the last time; if he doesn't go into this with his eyes open, this time will be even worse. But he lets himself be pulled against Liam’s chest, lets their lips meet, lets himself fall into this again, and fall and fall and fall.

He’s trembling by the time Liam pulls away. It has been far too long, and he’s grasping onto Liam’s shoulders a little too tightly, with too much desperation. He could taste the burn of alcohol in Liam’s mouth, knows that he drank too much himself, and that it’s lowering both their inhibitions even further.

Liam’s hands slip down to cup his ass as he whispers in Zayn’s ear, “It’s okay, baby – I’ll take care of you. Just tell me what you want.”

 _I want you to love me. I want this to be easy. I want you to stay this time_ – is what he thinks, what he feels. Instead he says, “I want to forget everything.” It's another truth, and easier to fulfil, albeit briefly. He wants to forget everyone who ever hurt him. Most of all he wants to forget how Liam hurt him. And, admittedly, he wants to forget everyone he ever hurt. To start again. Unbroken. Untouched. Unafraid.

Nodding again, Liam kisses his cheek. “I’m gonna worship you, beautiful; remind you why you ever put up with me.”

He already knows why – but he lets himself surrender. It is the only time he ever feels peace, when he gives himself over like this.

As he lets Liam strip him – quick and efficient – his eyes drift shut for a moment; he's only aware of the hands that move over him, and the fingers that pause to comb through his hair. He groans and leans into the touch, still so gentle, but he knows that won’t last; he wouldn’t want it to.

Beneath the firm, steady hands, he can feel Liam almost vibrating with barely restrained energy, drowning in adrenalin and struggling to maintain control.

As he steps out of the last of his clothes, Liam circles him, as if inspecting. He feels exposed and vulnerable, but it feels good. Much better than feeling nothing.

 _“Shit_ – you are such a _fucking_ slag,” Liam grinds out once he’s behind him, his hand moving from Zayn's waist, running down the small of his back, then lower, his touch lingering on the flared black end of the plug nestled snugly between his cheeks. Liam sounds angry for the first time that night, and Zayn smiles; he always did aim to rile the other man up, make him lose control; go further than he meant to.

He had cleaned himself out, opened himself, until he was slick and ready, and then plugged himself up. He quite enjoys the ritual of it, as though preparing himself as a sacrifice. Bathed and scented, though hardly a vestal virgin. Nothing left to disturb the squeamish. Occasionally it is too kinky for someone, how ready he is, but he thinks most people appreciate his effort.

Someone was bound to fuck him tonight, someone always will. He just didn’t know who, or what with.

Pushing up against Zayn’s back, Liam puts his powerful arm around him, laying it a little too firmly against his throat. He instinctively leans back against the broad chest and raises his hand, grasping on to Liam’s wrist – these moments often their most intimate caress.

Liam's lips brush against his ear, an intense harshness to his warm breath as he whispers, “I was gonna open you up with my mouth. I know how much you like it when I lie back and let you ride my tongue. But bad boys like you don’t deserve that. You’ll have to earn it for next time.”

 _Next time_ – he hates himself for the thrill that gives him, the butterflies fluttering madly in his stomach.

“Close your eyes again, sweetheart.” Liam tells him, still sounding pissed, but that's how Zayn wants him right now – annoyed and sleazy.

He’d noticed the black and white bandana hanging from the back pocket of Liam’s trousers, incongruous with his expensive suit as it dangled beneath the bottom of his jacket. Now it has been folded and is being placed around his eyes. He feels like a magician's trashy assistant, being prepared for a breath-taking trick in front of an expectant crowd. Except there is no mystery to what is about to happen here, and he isn't the one who will end up disappearing. The only question is exactly how he'll get his heart ripped out this time.

Smoothing Zayn's hair out of the way as he knots the rough cotton behind his head, Liam asks, “Is that too tight?”

He isn’t quite sure what the right answer is, so he just tells the truth, “Nah, it's alright.” In his present state, nothing could be _too_ anything.

There is the sound of the smooth slide of material being pulled free, then his hands are firmly grasped and pulled behind his back. Textured silk – he assumes Liam’s tie – is wrapped around and between his wrists, and pulled tight. Liam knows his knots; personally he has no idea about them. Out of principle he pulls at the binding, but he can’t free himself, his movements only making the knots tighter. He’s relieved. He knows that if he relaxes and works at it patiently, he could escape – but he wouldn’t dream of it. Liam’s intent was never to force him. That almost makes it worse – knowing that his own complicity in his subjugation is the main source of Liam’s pleasure. That he has to want it. Plead for it. That he can’t pretend it isn’t what he craves.

“I’d gag you too, beautiful, but I want to hear you beg for my cock. Want you to tell me how much you’ve missed it.” There is a brush of expensive, finely woven wool against him as the other man moves away, leaving him standing there, naked and bound. He feels a little ridiculous, now that he's on his own. He wonders if this is a test – so he waits silently.

“Come here.” The command in the voice – from lips he can’t see – goes straight to his dick.

He tries to remember where everything is in the room. He wishes he had paid more attention, but he’d been too caught up in the unexpected reunion. It feels as if it stretches endlessly in every direction. The loss of sight and touch is disorientating and he sways a little; but he knows he can’t just stand there with a burgeoning hard-on, looking lost.

His instinct is to feel in front of him in the dark, but that is denied him too. He tries to slowly move towards where he thinks the voice came from, muttering “Shit,” as he stubs his toe against something with a solid thud. He tries to reach down to ease the brief flash of pain, but of course can’t, hands straining futilely against their bonds. So he stands shakily on his other foot, and rubs his throbbing toe against the back of his ankle, feeling like an awkward child. “If I hit my dick on anything, I’m finding someone else to fuck me.”

His words are met with a silence that is only broken rhythmically by the sound of his own sharp, rapid breaths. _Bastard_ , he thinks to himself, but doesn’t say it, doesn’t stop searching out the warm body. And, truth be told, he likes being cut off from the world, with all its distractions, so he can concentrate on what matters. Just feel.

He almost topples over as he hits the edge of what must be the bed; cushioned fabric beneath his knees then a hard line against his shins. Gasping, he again tries to reach out to stop his fall and can’t. Strong hands catch him, righting him. “Careful, babe,” the disembodied voice instructs him, as the hands manoeuvre him over until he is on his knees on the soft, plush carpet. He can feel Liam’s presence above him, over him, sitting in front of him on the edge of the bed. Liam seems like a king to him, looking down on a subject – or a slave – who is kneeling at his feet. A tiny, uneasy part of him suspects that shouldn’t turn him on – but the rest of him doesn't give a fuck.

“Tell me how much you want my cock.” The voice continues.

His last shred of pride surges up and makes him rebel, his voice tight as he grinds out, “You already know.”

“Tell me or I’ll get myself off. Or there are plenty of people downstairs who wouldn’t say no to me.”

His mouth is watering and his tongue snakes out to wet his lips – he knows he’s being watched closely, can feel the gaze sliding over his skin. “I don’t have to do anything – you’re not gonna stop now."

“Try me.” There is an obvious challenge in the level voice.

It’s tempting, so tempting to make Liam angry again… But his cock is demanding attention, he can’t touch himself, and he needs something more inside himself or he feels like he’ll die. “Fine.” His sardonic tone adequately conveys his hidden eye roll. “Pretty please give me your great big cock to suck.”

Liam laughs as he responds, “That was fucking terrible. You always were a handful, it’s a good job you’re so pretty.” But there is fondness in his voice and the sound of him unzipping his fly as he says it. The reminder that Liam never got undressed makes him even more aware of his own nakedness.

Scooting closer, he opens his mouth in anticipation. He hears the soft rustle of clothing being hastily moved out of the way, before his head is pushed down roughly and he groans in relief as his remaining senses are satisfied by the familiar smell and taste of flesh and sex.

He lets Liam push into him – not that he has, or wants, any choice in the matter – until he gags and has to force himself not to struggle. With his lips stretched around the rigid flesh, and his jaw aching, he makes himself relax as Liam takes what he wants – his hand anxious and insistent against the back of Zayn’s head.

It doesn’t go on for long; he can tell that Liam doesn’t have enough control in this position, and he never could bear staying still.

“That’s better, darling,” Liam’s voice sounds strained as he pulls Zayn away – a thread of saliva still joining him to Zayn’s seeking mouth. The fingers entwined in Zayn’s hair tug him up and onto the bed, making him gasp at the sharp pain. He lands awkwardly on his knees, falling forward, a shoulder and cheek ending up pressed against the smooth cotton.

“You make it too easy.” There’s an edge to Liam’s words, as he manoeuvres Zayn into position, then pushes his legs apart and kneels between them. Liam’s fingers grasp against Zayn’s skin as he pulls at the plug. Zayn gasps in a breath as his body stretches around it, resisting, before it slides out.

“Look at you, always so ready for it. Gonna eat you out after all, get your pussy all wet and open for me, now that you’re being such a good girl.”

 _“Liam,”_ he drawls out each syllable warningly; he’s trying not to become too dependent again, and this isn’t helping.

“I still know what you need princess, no point trying to hide from me.”

“Just get on with it.” But the anticipation is so overwhelming he can hardly breathe. He almost wishes that Liam couldn’t read him like an open book in moment’s like this. Though Liam has, among other things, seen him wearing nothing but lace knickers, stockings, and high-heeled shoes, that it had embarrassingly turned out he couldn't walk in. Liam had just picked him up bridal style and carried him to bed. It was almost romantic. There's no point pretending otherwise now.

“Such a bossy little thing, I’m gonna have to do a better job training you than I did before.” Liam ends his words with a sudden slap against Zayn's ass that makes him jump.

Opening his mouth to tell Liam to warn him next time, all he can do is moan instead as he feels hands on him, thumbs digging into his flesh, exposing him, and the warm, wet stroke of Liam’s tongue. It teases inside as his expectant hole twitches around it, his body tense. Liam spits against him; the warm saliva trickles down to his balls and is licked away. It feels so wonderfully filthy, and he relaxes now, giving in to the sensations. When Liam sinks his teeth into the meagre flesh of his ass, he feels a jolt, then it’s as though warm honey is being poured over him as he melts into it.

Followed by nothing for a moment, but before he can complain – perhaps beg – slick fingers are pushing into him. Liam must have brought sachets of lube with him, probably condoms too – always prepared, rogue Boy Scout that he is.

He knows that he doesn’t need much more preparation, but he lets Liam indulge himself, let’s him pretend he’s taking care of Zayn in his own way.

He rocks back against the hand working him from the inside, pleading shamelessly for more, past caring about anything else. And he gets more – stretching him. Then the fingers are gone too; fortunately he is past shame, whining wordlessly as he waits.

He hears the ominous slide of Liam’s belt being pulled quickly through the loops restraining it and breaking free with a sound like the crack of a whip. His pulse quickens as he wonders if Liam is going to _really_ punish him. He wouldn’t mind. He remembers – remembers how he would revel in Liam’s loss of control when he would bend Zayn over and take his belt to him. How Liam would strike and strike until he was shaking, his breathing ragged, pure unadulterated need driving him. How Liam would make him reach his hands back and hold himself open, before he struck down where Zayn is most sensitive.

He would take it as long as he could, feeling such a failure once his body collapsed, and the sex would be quick and frantic, though it wasn’t even about physical gratification by that point. Then Liam would take such good care of him afterwards. That was Zayn’s favourite part – quiet and watchful as he was tended to, as if he were special and had achieved something spectacular by giving himself so completely. And perhaps he had.

But he realises Liam is too worked up for that tonight – and perhaps too cautious – as he’s briefly pulled up enough for the implacable loop of leather to be placed around his neck. The unfastened buckle – the rest of the belt threaded through it – rests at the back against his spine. He gasps as Liam pulls it taught, his back arching downwards as his body presents itself. The pressure of his own blood pounds in his head, and his pulse throbs. Suddenly he is acutely aware of his own body, each beat of his heart, as he swallows against the broad leather. He smiles into the mattress. There is nothing he enjoys more than feeling owned.

He can picture Liam’s always-restless hand holding the belt tight, pulling at it like a leash, as he hears him say, “Be a good little bitch and just take it,” his voice harsh.

Then the blunt head of Liam’s cock is pushing inside him, and he feels relief more than anything. Not giving him much time to adjust, Liam pounds into him – he never did have much impulse control.

Liam’s so big in all the right places: his hands, his lips, and, of course, his dick. Zayn loves how caught he feels underneath the larger body – caught and trapped. Thick and sturdy, Liam's hard-earned athleticism gives him an acute awareness of his own body and exactly what it's capable of. There’s something so manly about him and it drives Zayn out of his fucking mind. He can feel the coarse, untended hair, that runs uninterrupted down the centre of Liam’s body from his chest, between the teasing brush of Liam’s open shirt, as he leans over Zayn and brushes against his restrained hands. The pressure around his throat ebbs and flows.

He hates the way he whines as Liam pulls out, telling Zayn that he wants to watch him; but he lets himself be manhandled until he’s straddling Liam’s hips, the still partially clothed man lying on his back beneath him, steadying him with resolute hands.

Feeling behind himself, he finally gets his hands on Liam’s dick, sheathed and slick. It’s awkward but he manages to manoeuvre until he can work himself down on it, his head falling back with a moan.

The belt hangs down against his back, just an annoyance with no force behind it. Missing the feel of it choking him, he manages to get a hold of it between his fingers, tugging on it, throat bared. He knows it must look like a collar, and it pleases him to imagine how Liam must be admiring it.

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And the biggest whore I’ve ever met.” Liam sounds awed as he watches. Zayn can’t see him, but he can remember how he looks in these moments: wide eyed and captivated.

Liam is always so eager inside of him, but Zayn’s knees ache and his thighs quiver – he lets Liam take over as he grips Zayn’s hips tightly, thrusting up into him, harsh, the pace brutal. He welcomes it. Fingertips press against his skin until he can feel the blood vessels breaking beneath them. He wonders distantly if there will be incriminating fingerprints left on his flesh to show who he belongs to.

Somehow Liam manages to keep talking, though he voice is breathless and haltering, full of tension and need. He must know that his disjointed words still hold even more power than his touch. "Fuck – I wanna breed you… We'll get tested… Then I’ll fill you up… See it dripping down your thighs… Lick you clean… Keep you plugged up all the time with my cum inside you… Want it, baby?" He never stops moving, it punctuates his words as he fucks up into Zayn to emphasize his meaning.

 _Yes, fuck yes,_ he thinks, but he’s reaching his limit, instead saying, “Just _fucking_ touch me,” he sounds wrecked, broken, and his neglected cock almost hurts, heavy and straining against empty air. The words vibrate through him, struggling to make it out of his constricted throat.

It is such a relief when Liam’s wet hand curls around him, stroking down his length… Before he stops abruptly, as he says, “No I don’t think so – you can come from just my cock, that should be enough for you.” His voice is strained as his slippery hand moves to play with one of Zayn’s nipples.

He wants to complain, but words elude him as Liam pinches it hard; the pain is exquisite and all he can do is bear down as he contracts around Liam’s dick. Even he can’t tell whether he’s trying to squirm away from the torture of Liam’s touch, or push into it.

“I can’t.” He grinds down harder as he says it, every nerve ending alight with need and annoyance, anger starting to rise in him. His nails dig resolutely into his palms and embed themselves in the belt, as he tries to ground himself, give himself some relief.

“Yes you can, babe. Be a good girl for Daddy.”

His brain stutters as the words flood into him.

And he tries, he does, straining towards it desperately – but he can’t quite grasp it. Fractured words tumble out of him, pleading for harder, faster, _more._

Fingers scrambling at the skin pulled taut over the prominent bones of Zayn’s hips, Liam's thrusts become frenzied and lose their rhythm, the last remnants of his self-control slipping from his grasp. He mumbles something unintelligible as he grips Zayn tightly and flips him over, swearing as he slips out of him. Zayn's back arches into a clean, sharp curve as he's lowered onto the bed.

Hands throbbing painfully, trapped beneath him, Zayn gasps as his legs are pushed back further, Liam’s thick arms shoved against the backs of his knees. The belt’s buckle is a hard bump digging into his vertebrae at the back of his neck. Though he knows the point isn’t his comfort, but his obedience.

Quickly guiding himself back inside, Liam stabs into him with rapid, jagged movements of his hips, which become slower and deeper as he comes, sounding so wonderfully undone, possibly too far-gone to ever venture back. It almost sounds like pain. Almost. Zayn wishes he could touch him, comfort him through it. Feel his muscles as they tense, and the sweat slicking his skin.

After Liam pulls out, Zayn feels the impact as he collapses onto his back, and hears him swearing at himself again in frustration – his language deliciously profane – presumably as things didn’t go as he had planned. Liam never takes it well when he loses. Listening as the jagged breathing becomes slow and even, Zayn waits – there’s not much else he can do, but he feels so fucking empty. There’s a groan as Liam manages to move, searching around for something.

“You were so good, baby, so fucking good.” Liam murmurs, coming close. The makeshift blindfold is starting to ride up, and Liam pulls it back into place, then kisses him, brief but deep – filled with empty promises – before he's pushed over onto his stomach. Entirely pliant now.

The end of the belt is caught beneath him, and Liam drags it out, pulling it taught – only enough to hinder his breaths, to make him grateful to be allowed them. Liam pushes Zayn's legs apart, kneeling back between them, as his large hand grasps onto the binding between Zayn’s wrists, along with the leather. He moves his other hand down, his fingers wet and determined, pushing into Zayn's well-used hole.

Zayn had been trying so hard to hold back, to take the offered pleasure, and not give Liam everything, to keep something for himself; but the last ruins of his self-defences come tumbling down around him. All he knows now are the fingers inside of him, pressing down, rubbing over his sweet spot until he’s sobbing. His breathing is ragged as he ruts helplessly, hips bucking, moaning against the mattress as he comes apart.

A warm mouth against his ear whispers, “It doesn’t matter if we’re apart, or how much time passes, you’re still mine.” Fingers still move inside him as they milk him mercilessly. His trapped dick desperately seeks friction as it pulses its load into the indifferent sheet.

He tries to speak, but is beyond forming words. He’s grateful for that. If he were capable, all he can think to say – over and over – is, _I love you I love you I love you._ But he knows better.

He doesn’t think he can take any more, feels like he will break and shatter. Finally his spent body stills, and the fingers are withdrawn; but he feels no relief, just loss.

“Don’t move.” Liam sounds exhausted, and a sense of satisfied achievement settles over Zayn. Lips brush over his cheek and the bed dips then settles. The air is cool and empty around him.

And so he doesn’t move. He lays there as the dampness from his own release makes his skin itch, and as his wrists throb. He feels cut off from the world. He can’t move, can’t see. Yet he feels calm. No choices left. No decisions. Everything given over.

He never gave a lot of thought to why they do these things. Didn’t want to scrutinise it too closely, risk seeing through it and breaking the spell, knowing it will only work as long as they both believe in it. But in his rare moments of introspection he sees how awkward they can both be around others, how hard they can find it to navigate through the exhausting world, with its endless social conventions. How often they shock people by stepping over the invisible lines society draws. But how they are together, at times like this, it’s simple. Absolute. An irresistible taste of freedom. No second-guessing because everything is allowed. There is no way to go too far, be too extreme, too intense. Especially for him, placing himself entirely in Liam’s hands, at his tender mercy, absolving himself of responsibility. It gives Zayn the escape of stepping out of himself for a while. Into a different reality. A break from the conflict and confusion of life. This part is easy. It’s the rest of the time that’s the problem, when they try to find a way to fit in, to be accepted by everyone else.

He hears Liam go into the bathroom. Liam must have left the door open so that he can keep an eye on him – _on his property,_ Zayn corrects himself with a thrill, his breath quickening again – because he hears Liam emptying his bladder. _He should have taken me with him, used me instead. M_ _aybe next time._

If he gets the chance, he plans to coax Liam into shedding the last of his inhibitions. Into doing all the things they haven’t had the chance, or the nerve, to try. Although he knows not to expect more, he does think that Liam will keep fucking him, at least until someone better, and safer, comes along. The thought of that, and what will happen to him then, when he’s left alone at the mercy of the other wolves as they circle him, makes him feel sick.

As he listens, he distracts himself from his worries about the future by imagining something that could at least happen. Being pushed down to his knees in a dry shower, the tiles cold and solid beneath him. His mouth will be pulled open by Liam, fingers slipping inside for a moment. Liam will probably find it hard the first time he tries to give him his piss. To let go. He’ll swear at himself in frustration, but eventually he’ll manage it; he very rarely gives up on anything, which makes it all the more inconceivable when he does. Like when he gave up on them… Zayn tries harder to ruthlessly push those thoughts aside.

Instead, he licks his lips subconsciously as he imagines the shock of the stream hitting his face, before Liam learns to aim it into his mouth, though it would still overflow down his chin. How he will be ordered to “just _fucking_ take it,” and he will drink; that blissful moment when Liam loses all control and treats Zayn like he owns him. Which he does.

He’ll probably struggle too, his body rebelling against the acrid taste, the surprising warmth, as much as he wants it. Trying not to gag as Liam holds him in place by his hair.

Liam’s words will pour over him, “This is all you’re good for, taking my piss and cum, be fucking grateful for it.” And he will be. He always is.

Perhaps Liam will decide to hell with the mess; let it course down Zayn’s chest then along his dick, the pressure like a caress as it moves over him. It will pool around his knees, and Liam’s feet. When he finishes, Liam will probably be so turned on he’ll fuck Zayn’s mouth, fast, hard, and wet. Then when he comes, he’ll make Zayn swallow that too.

He will be chastised for wasting so much of what was given to him, pushed down by the back of his neck to lick more from the floor – bitter gold against his tongue.

Afterwards, Liam will go to get him a drink – though he suspects the taste would still linger – then turn the shower on and wash him clean. Liam’s soapy hands will caress him, sounding overwhelmed as he says, “You did so good, baby, so amazing. It makes me so proud, how much you can take.” He lives for those moments of validation.

The discomfort of his body is forgotten as he bites his lower lip, caught up in his fantasy of all the future possibilities that feel just out of reach. He barely registers the muted sounds of Liam conscientiously brushing his teeth and washing his hands.

And still, he doesn’t move.

He’s dragged back to the present as he hears Liam walk into the room, followed by the faint, efficient sounds of him taking off the rest of his clothes – but not of them crumpling to the floor; _he must be carefully folding them somewhere, of course,_ he thinks to himself, as he doesn’t move.

The bed dips again, Liam’s voice murmuring, “You’re such a good boy.” His strong hands are gentle again now, as he unbinds Zayn. The ruined silk is reluctant to release him, but eventually Liam manages to pry it open. Zayn gasps as the blood flows freely again to his fingers and the sensation of pins and needles prickle under his skin. He lets his arms fall to his sides – he thinks that’s permitted – as Liam struggles with the knots in the slightly damp blindfold, before giving up and pulling it carefully over Zayn’s head. The belt is pulled back out through the buckle as he’s released, Liam helping him to briefly raise himself a little to avoid the burn as it is pulled out from under him.

A warm, wet cloth wipes soothingly down between his cheeks, then Liam pushes him over – so cautious now – and cleans the semen drying on his abdomen. He winces as he opens his eyes, blinking against the light that shocks them after they had grown accustomed to the enveloping darkness. Liam scrambles over to dim the lamp, then massages the crescents etched into his palms, and his sore wrists, stained an angry red under the skin. Then Liam's almost repentant fingers run over the lines that must have been left by the friction and pressure on the defenceless skin of his throat.

He would preen under the attentive ministrations if he had the energy and wasn’t already pulling back as best he can.

Biting his lip, Liam looks incongruously uncertain as he asks, “You okay? I didn’t hurt you? I just want you so fucking much…”

 _I want you to hurt me, I don’t want you to let me get away,_ he admits silently, but he just shakes his head, saying instead, “I’ve had worse.” Then he pointedly adds, “No one else will ever give you this.”

“I know.” Liam nods as he says it, looking him in the eyes. He seems certain at least. For now. He pulls the quilt over them as he lays down, not moving Zayn – his protective urges always emerging after sessions like this – and lays half over him instead, curling his body around him.

Zayn feels acutely aware of the fact that it doesn’t matter how many awards he’s won, or how many singers and producers are clamouring to work with him: in the end, he’s still just a fucked up, fragile man, who has made it to his mid-twenties without putting down any roots, and is lying in a rented bed with a man who will never really love him, begging for his cock.

But he indulges himself for a while – lets himself pretend that everything is resolved now, even though it isn’t. Liam seems to be drifting off, his arm a welcome, anchoring weight over Zayn’s chest – but he can't let himself become accustomed to it. Pushing it off – with a worrying tenderness – he stumbles out of bed and makes his way to the bathroom to take a piss, before locating his abandoned underwear and pulling it on.

Kneeling on the ground, he digs in his jacket pockets – borrowed from some designer who would be horrified to see their clothes strewn across the floor. He makes a small noise of empty triumph as he finds the joint he vaguely remembered leaving there, and his unnecessarily, yet aptly, cheap plastic lighter.

As he heads to the window, he almost steps on the obscenely filled condom – picking it up he drops it into the bin. He doesn’t know why he bothers using them really. Appearances he supposes. It’s not like he ever expected to die of old age.

Pulling open the curtains, then pushing up the heavy sash – which takes a few attempts as it sticks half way – he’s hit by the noise of the city. Even at night, the cars speed past, driving from nowhere to anywhere, and there are the distant sounds of other people living out their lives. The cold, calming air bathes over him as he pushes his head outside. There are far more lights in the city below than stars visible in the black sky above. He puts the rolled paper between his lips, cupping his hand around it to protect it from the biting wind as he lights it. There is a moment of bliss with the first hit as it warms him through, accompanying the sharp burning taste. He hears Liam stirring behind him, can picture his brow furrowed in worry as he notices he’s in an empty bed – but he doesn’t turn around.

It still feels like there is something around his throat. He wonders if that feeling will ever go away. He doubts it.

The smoke fills his lungs then curls out in thick swirls past his lips, as he leans against the sill. Liam drapes himself across his back, kissing him below his ear as he murmurs, “It’ll be different this time.”

He doesn’t argue, though he knows it won’t be. Just as he knows that he will climb back on the merry-go-round for another spin. Just another turn in their never-ending cycle. He couldn’t stop if he tried.


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Endings and beginnings.

_***_

_I shouldn't be much longer, but you shouldn't have to wait._   
_Can't lose you, can't help it, I'm so sorry, I'm so selfish._

_~ The good ones go ~ Drake_

_~ _~ _~___

It has been a long, hard road for Liam to make it to where he is now.

Honestly, he’s pleased with how tonight has gone. It had taken a lot of organising: finding that Zayn would be here, and then getting himself an invitation without Zayn finding out. Neutral ground had seemed best; somewhere he couldn’t be easily avoided. The anticipation had been driving him crazy, and even so he had half-expected Zayn to yell at him, in his own quiet way, or maybe even punch him. No, he corrects himself, Zayn was always more likely to hurt himself, and that scares him even more.

Though really the hardest part for Liam had been working out exactly what he wanted. And then being brave enough to fight for it.

And what he wants is to stop hiding, to stop running away, and to be there for Zayn. To make him feel safe enough to tell Liam everything about his past, and about who had hurt him. Though he doesn’t think knowing names and dates will make any difference. But it might help Zayn to know he isn’t dealing with it on his own anymore.

The final parting with his ex-girlfriend had been hard. Their relationship had been rocky for a long time, but she had been his first love, and they were together on and off for years. They both saw other people while they were together, an arrangement he didn’t want with Zayn, but it hadn’t lessened what he felt for her.

He'd fucked things up so badly with Zayn last time; he wants to place himself in a better position to give him what he needs now. So he has already told his family about himself; well, not everything, but more than they've known about his life for a long time. Trying to explain bisexuality to his uncomprehending parents had been an embarrassment he could have lived without, and he didn't even try bringing pansexuality into it, or Zayn's complex gender identity; Liam likes things to be simple, but none of it is, and he's still trying to grasp it all himself. It had been an emotional experience for them all, but ultimately they accepted it – accepted him.

Though he realised something as he did it; how subjective and limited his revelations were. That even as he revealed a part of himself, he still had to keep so much hidden. Including the complexities of his relationship with Zayn; the things Zayn lets him do – lets him be – and that he has no intention of ever stopping. He doesn’t think anyone would understand. Eventually he intends to come out publicly, but even then he knows they will always have to keep the exact nature of their relationship hidden. That peoples acceptance only goes so far.

He can handle his teammates; they’re mostly supportive other than the expected banter. His manager and agent are bigger problems. They’re trying to dissuade him from giving revealing interviews about his personal life; the former making threats, the latter giving warnings, of what will happen if he does; but he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. He just hopes he won’t have to change teams; he likes being with the best. Not getting to play at all is something he can’t even contemplate. Only one other Premier League player has ever come out and tried to keep playing here, and that ended tragically. It’s uncharted territory, and no one knows what will happen.

Zayn always says that the precarious, privileged world they both inhabit is a circus, and perhaps it is, but he likes it, despite everything. It’s what he always dreamed of, and he doesn’t want to lose any of it.

But he had found life… grey and meaningless – incomplete – without Zayn’s adoration; and right now, things are looking up. He’s made his choice, and his focus and resolve means that he usually gets what he wants in the end.

Though tonight he had failed to persuade Zayn to go back to bed and watch a movie with him, but they had given each other handjobs in the shower instead, their fingers languid but determined in their excitement at being able to touch each other again, to relearn each other's eager flesh, so he was counting that as a win. He had even managed to coax Zayn into calling him “Daddy” like he used to, once he was desperate enough. Afterwards, Zayn had leant over the sink, watching in the mirror as Liam fingered him open and then plugged him back up. Each time Liam glanced up, his eyes had locked with the reflection of Zayn's as they gazed unwaveringly at him, the changeable hazel of his irises almost golden in the harsh fluorescent light, intent but unreadable.

Zayn had insisted they leave afterwards, rather than spending the night; so here he is, back in his crumpled suit, trying to look vaguely presentable. His tie was beyond all hope and is hanging half out of his jacket pocket, and his towel-dried hair has reverted back to its natural, annoyingly boyish, chestnut curls.

He sneaks a look over at Zayn as they emerge from the lift and back into the lobby; he looks beautiful, of course. He always does. Liam’s breath is taken away, yet again, by the sight of him. He barely looks real, more like a sculpture in a museum that Liam would never set foot in. He smiles fondly as he takes in the sight of Zayn’s flat hair as it falls into his eyes and he pushes it back. As Zayn’s cuff falls away from his wrist, Liam feels territorial satisfaction seeing the marks still lingering there, and on his palm. There are still lines ghosting around his throat from the belt too, blending in with the ever-increasing tattoos that are slowly creeping up from his chest. He raises his hand to his own neck, feeling the determined love bite that Zayn had sucked onto him as they became further reacquainted with each other’s bodies under the cascading water. His cock shows renewed interest, and he reaches down to subtly adjust himself; _this is getting ridiculous_ , he silently curses his overactive hormones now that he is around Zayn again.

It’s the early hours of a cold, dreary morning; the party has ended and the last stragglers are filing past them. They receive a few curious glances, but most people are too caught up in their own affairs to pay them much attention. But as the doors open and close for the other guests to leave, the sound of the press still camped outside reaches them, and the screams of the remaining scattering of determined fans. There had been plenty of other famous people present tonight too, including renowned, international stars, and the bustling throng still lingering on the other side of the doors must still be hoping for more sightings, perhaps even a big a story to make their time in the bleak London drizzle worthwhile.

“Shit,” Liam says as he and Zayn come to a sudden halt. He should have realised this would happen. He freezes for a moment, not sure how to handle it.

“It’s okay.” But Zayn’s jaw is tight as he says it, and he seems frustrated. He’s rubbing the back of his index finger over his lower lip, a self-comforting gesture that Liam remembers well. Zayn is already looking away as he continues, “You leave first. I’ll go hang out in the bar for a bit; I need a drink anyway. I’ll call you sometime…” His voice drips with barely hidden hostility, and he’s clearly starting to sulk as he turns to go, just as he had at the start of the evening. Liam can feel him pulling away, and not just physically; under the composed exterior he can almost see Zayn snarling, biting, and scratching as he tries to sever the invisible thread that always draws them back together.

It hits Liam like a ton of bricks: stupid, he has been so fucking stupid – Zayn didn’t believe a single word that Liam said to him all night. He had thought it was all a game, that all of Liam’s vows were just role-playing. A fantasy that Liam would never live up to. But Liam meant all of it, every single word. He realises now that he should have done more, said more, somehow made Zayn his, claimed him completely. He chest is tight as he feels panic crawling up into his throat.

He isn’t letting Zayn go. Not again. Never again.

He knows what he has to do now. And has to do it immediately; he doesn’t trust Zayn on his own in this state – or worse, if someone else picks him up. He’s seen it before, seen the things that Zayn can do to himself, or let other people do to him, and Liam hates himself for ever being the cause of it. We always think there will be more time, but he knows that sometimes there just isn’t any left to spare, and he can’t take the risk.

Once more he reaches out and stops Zayn from walking away.

Zayn looks so lost, a fiery anguish in his eyes as he turns back to Liam, his pupils still a little too dilated, but his buzz now a distant memory. He’s clearly working himself up to lash out and is uncharacteristically animated, hands gesticulating angrily, pointing at Liam and jabbing his finger as he says, “I fucking knew this would happen! One night together! One _fucking_ night! And I’m back to being your dirty little secret! You don’t want anyone to see your walk of shame so you leave me behind. I told you, I can’t keep doing –”

“C’mon,” he grabs Zayn’s hand tightly as he says it; his own palm is starting to sweat and Zayn’s hand feels small and cool against it. He’s nervous, but resolute as he starts to walk briskly towards the main doors, tugging his belligerent companion behind him. Zayn’s refusals are knocked out of him as he gasps in a breath and hurries to catch up.

The unknown future spreads out in front of Liam, terrifying but exhilarating. He hadn’t planned this part, had somehow thought everything might fall easily into place. But he realises now that it won’t. Things never do. _The only way out is through,_ he tells himself with grim determination. The porter in his elaborate suit and top hat opens the doors for them as they approach – he has no idea the media frenzy he is unleashing.

“Liam, what the fuck are you doing?” Zayn asks, looking over at him. He sounds confused and concerned as he struggles to keep up with Liam’s longer strides. _“Liam,_ answer me!” Zayn is hard to fluster but he sounds on the verge of panic himself, though he still drags out each syllable of Liam’s name in the way that only he does.

But Liam’s course is set and he doesn’t dare look over at Zayn in case he loses his nerve.

As they step out into the chill of the cold night air, the stars bright above now, a sea of flashes greet them, as the pictures are taken which will no doubt be on all the front pages in the morning. The rabble of paparazzi jostle for position, a raucous chorus of voices all calling for their attention, their boredom quickly forgotten at the sight of Zayn Malik and Liam Payne leaving a hotel together holding hands. They’re desperate for a scoop and enlivened by the change in the air – they can sense the opportunity for money and notoriety. A handful of hardy reporters grip their microphones tightly, their camera operators spurred into action. The dozens of voices all yelling questions are just a wall of unintelligible noise.

But they stand together in the centre of the storm, and, for the moment, the rest of the world seems like a different reality, as if viewed through a screen.

He squeezes Zayn’s hand reassuringly, then draws him close and into a kiss, brief but blatant, imbued with love and promises to be kept. Zayn doesn’t seem to care where they are, he never did, pushing himself against Liam and gripping tight to his sleeve as Liam pulls away, with all hell breaking loose around them. He leans his forehead against Zayn’s for a second, gathering himself for the long night ahead. As he moves back, Zayn gazes up at him, wide eyed in shock, but glowing with a nervous excitement. He seems alarmed by the increasing noise and out of control pandemonium only few feet away from them, but he looks… proud, happy, and so impressed by Liam, the corner of his mouth curling into a mischievous half smile. And that makes all of this worth it.

“I told you, baby,” he says softly, tucking Zayn against his side as their combined image is captured and sent around the world, security struggling to hold back the jubilant photographers and camera crews as he whispers the rest against Zayn’s ear, “I’m gonna take care of you now.”

**_The end_ **


End file.
